


So Beautiful, I Cannot Breathe

by KaedeRavensdale



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, I actually have this one already finished, Idiots who don't realize they're in love, M/M, most likely, once a week at least, or rather who both think the other is in love with someone else, will post chapters as i type them up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:34:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22597138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaedeRavensdale/pseuds/KaedeRavensdale
Summary: Given his position and his past Mathias Shaw knows he can't afford to land himself in a relationship with anyone. Yet now he faces a choice between his life and his duty, all over a coat-clad former pirate who's in love with the Harbormaster's Squire.Flynn Fairwind was never really a commitment sort of guy, but he wouldn't mind becoming one if the one he's committing to is Mathias Shaw; the inscrutable and unapproachable Spymaster of SI:7. Only problem is, the assassin already has unrequited feelings for his commander, Halford Wyrmbane.And to think the Mainlanders are all convinced that the Flower Spitting Disease is a sailor superstition.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 34
Kudos: 91





	1. 1.

By virtue of his duties, Mathias Shaw, Spymaster of SI:7 and head of the Stormwind Assassin’s Guild, had been many places across the whole of Azeroth but even still the rogue doubted that he’d ever get used to the cold. A consequence, he suspected, of being native to a place where, in no small part due to its proximity to a tropical rainforest, winters never plunged far beyond just cold enough to snow. Boralus, however, situated just beside the frigid waters of Tirigarde Sound, may has well have been at equivalent latitude to Icecrown. Just, thank the Light, sans Lich King.

No, this time all the decorated Spymaster had to contend with was the resident pirate-reformed-to-not-quite-a-pirate-anymore, Captain of the Middenwake, Flynn Fairwind. He’d give the copper headed rapscallion one thing: he was a bloody good sailor and possessed a good nose for treasure, be it gold or Azerite. So, naturally, Halford Wyrmbane, in all his infinite wisdom, had tasked the man with the oversight and management of the island expeditions which were the war effort’s main source of Azerite. Which meant that he had to make daily reports whenever he wasn’t at sea. Which put him, inevitably, unavoidably, in Mathias’ path.

Marvelous.

The man was a talker. A bit of a drunkard. A compulsive flirt. And didn’t quite seem to have a setting on which he wasn’t constantly prattling about something inane and often unnecessarily tawdry. Utterly unprofessional, frankly. But that wasn’t the reason which led to Mathias being so displeased with the Kul Tiran’s near constant presence. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Fairwind, all else aside. In fact, if pressed, and held down, and maybe tortured extensively, Mathias might have been forced to admit that he’d grown far fonder of the other man than was wise. That, in fact, was precisely the problem.

High ranking military official that he was, Mathias knew that he was a high value target for the enemies of Stormwind and the Alliance as a whole. And, by consequence, anyone with whom he might stand to become involved would also be made a target. Thereby, ever allowing himself the weakness of a relationship would be sorely irresponsible on two fronts: not only would it cloud his judgement, allowing his foes something which could be leveraged against him, but it would be putting someone else in life threatening danger. Would be putting Flynn, specifically, in life threatening danger.

The notion, though mercifully it failed to stir up any specific imagery, was enough to make his chest ache. A sharp, pinching sensation as if something had taken root within his lungs.

Not to mention, Mathias reminded himself, finally tearing his eyes away from the map of Zandalar that he’d been glaring at, that he didn’t have the strength of heart left to survive a repeat of what had happened in his twenties. Rejection by Edwin in the worst form; the revelation that he’d betrayed the crown. Forcing him to choose between his liege and the man that didn’t love him back. It had been an extreme case, sure, but the risk of heartbreak again was too much. Walking the line of falling to the teeth of madness or depression. He was a tool of the King, couldn’t afford to be dulled by such things, and as such after Vancleef had died Mathias had devoted himself to keeping everyone at arm’s length. To wrap himself with the notion that his only purpose was service to the House of Wrynn, that Human happiness wasn’t something owed to a living weapon. But in the wake of all the madness at Felsoul, where he’d been tortured within inches of his life, cracks had appeared in that shell. Deep cracks that he’d yet to shore up. And Fairwind, unintentionally, had managed to force his fingers inside.

And he knew it was unintentionally because the other man had no interest in him in the least, as far as in that sense. Likely wasn’t into men anyway given the amount of time that he spent in the company of the Harbormaster’s Squire, the Fordragon girl.

Mathias’ amber eyes fell on the familiar profile of a coat-clad figure, weaving his way towards them through the hustle and bustle of Tradewind Market, and a searing burst of pain shot through his chest as if he’d just inhaled a lungful of embers. Managing, just barely, to hold back a wince the Spymaster reclined against the mast behind him. Redirecting his gaze off somewhere unimportant and doing his best to appear relaxed and unconcerned as the focus of his most uncalled for infatuation at last scaled the boarding plank and sauntered onto the decks of the _Wind’s Redemption_.

He kept his eyes politely averted but from his position could easily hear every word of it. Flynn, no doubt, had no idea he was being eavesdropped upon. Wyrmbane knew, no doubt, but couldn’t truly call him on the matter as subtlety granted him the necessary plausible deniability to pass such matters off. He hadn’t gotten to his position without such skills, after all. More often than not, they simply served the Paladin-too morally uptight to be as efficient, in Shaw’s opinion, as Stormwind needed him to be, certainly in times like these-as a point of exasperation. They never had quite seen eye to eye, he and Halford. The other man regarding him as possessed of far too few scruples; far too prepared to take care of threats to the throne which couldn’t be handled in an upright manner with a below the table, off the books, twist of a poison knife. They worked together, now and every time going back, because circumstance required it. Both were similar in one respect: their devotion to the word of the Young Lion.

Flynn, as per usual, was his typical ostentatious self and Wyrmbane, to his credit, did a good enough job of fielding matters to ensure they remained on topic. The Captain delivered his report: another three hull-fulls of Azerite gathered and delivered to the proper authorities. Expected levels of Horde-backed Zandalari interference, all of which had been successfully put down by the Alliance Champions making up the crews which he’d overseen, this time to Dreadchain, Rotting Mire and Jorundall. A handful of treasures brought in. Some Death Knight or another flying around Boralus on a ‘tamed’ Thunderwing.

Light, though Mathias was far from a devout man, let them not have to deal with Dragon-induced havoc on top of everything else. Hazarding a glance at Alleria, standing not far away, he couldn’t help but think that her expression indicated a similar line of thought.

Finally, the topic of conversation turned to the next move in the war effort. The very same job which the Paladin had detailed to Mathias, though he hadn’t clarified with whom he’d be partnered.

Of all the people Halford could have thought to pair him with, naturally, it had to be Flynn! As the 7th Legion Commander-was he imagining things or did the bastard look a bit smug beneath his golden helmet-turned to look in his direction the Spymaster bit back a curse. Another aching twinge pulsing outward from his chest. “Mathias, if you’d come over please, I’d rather brief the both of you at the same time.”

Yes, the Spymaster thought as he pushed off from the wooden mast and began to cross the decks towards where they stood, Halford was most certainly doing this with full awareness of the state of his discomfort. He came to a stop at the other end of the map strewn table from the auburn-haired Captain in hopes that doing so might prevent any tomfoolery from happening. Unfortunately, it had the direct result of putting Fairwind in a position where Mathias couldn’t not stare at him while still remaining discrete about attempting to avoid the matter.

“Ay, Matty!” The former pirate chirped brightly. “Miss me while I was a sea?”

The Spymaster harrumphed and folded his arms across his chest.

“Oh, don’t be like that Gingersnap.” The bastard had the gall to grin over the way the stupid nickname made one of the smaller muscles in his face twitch. “I certainly missed you. Nearly died a couple of times when those blasted elementals tried to light my ship on fire, but after coming to the conclusion you needed me here to keep that pole from going any further up, I realized I just had to pull through somehow.”

Flirtation while still managing to remain mildly and perhaps unintentionally insulting. It would have annoyed Mathias on any other day, but now the notion that the former pirate was like this with everyone felt like swallowing a hot poker.

Damn it all, the last time he’d felt like this was when a shiv had been slipped between his ribs.

“I don’t know what ‘pole’ to which you’re referring,” a lie; he knew his generally unapproachable demeanor was exactly what the other man meant. But his chilly outer front was in place for a reason. Normally that it drove people away from him was of no concern. Was, in fact, the point. But now it only served to cement how incompatible they truly were. It felt like vines were unfurling in his breast. Thorns raking the lining of his lungs but not digging in.

Yet.

“Oh, really?” the former pirate didn’t sound as if he believed him for even a moment. “Well, if you’d like, and perhaps in private, I could show you the one I’m referring to.” Flynn grinned again. “I wouldn’t mind getting more familiar with it, and the area around it.”

“I don’t have time for your flirtation!” This, for him, firmly cemented the truth that they wouldn’t have worked well together anyway. Mathias wasn’t the most jealous person in the world but he didn’t have the patience or emotional fortitude to open himself up again the way a relationship would require to someone who, for the sheer sport of it, would talk everyone he met to bed.

“Hey, Matty, I’m only teasing.”

“Captain Fairwind.” Halford said tiredly, no doubt beginning to regret his decision. Good. “If you could be convinced to pester the Spymaster on your own time?”

“Aye, the mission.” With an astounding suddenness Flynn seemed to sober-on second thought, maybe ‘sober’ wasn’t the right word-regarding the matter. Schooling his features into something which might have passed as serious to anyone that didn’t know him. “Apologies.”

Now it was Wyrmbane’s turn to huff. “Yes, noted.” The Paladin sounded on if the last few moments had aged him a decade. “As Mathias, at least, is aware, some time ago and with the aid of a Tide Sage turned Forsaken the Horde managed to get their hands on a powerful artifact known as the Abyssal Scepter. The magic of the artifact would be of great aid in our efforts in neutralizing Zandalar. Currently, its being held in the ‘City of Gold’s treasury. As the two of you are the most skilled in stealth and seafaring, I can think of no better team to see the mission through.”

‘Provided you can get along’ went unsaid.

“I’m more than capable of keeping Fairwind in line.” He grunted, ignoring the way the other tried to catch his eye in favor of scorching the Paladin with his glare. “We’ll get in, get the artifact, and get out. No problems. And if there are problems that arise, I’ll deal with them. Swiftly. You have my word.”

“If I might ask, when will we be leaving on this illustrious Zandalar vacation?” Flynn grinned widely and spread his arms even wider. “Boralus is home, of course, but it’s nice to get away to somewhere warm every once in a while.”

In that regard, at least, Mathias had to agree with him.

“The end of the week.” Only a few days to reinforce his sanity, then? The Spymaster would have to get to work. “Dismissed.”

With all the raucous cheer which had come to be expected of him, the reformed pirate made his way back off the deck the way he’d come onto it. Leaving the Spymaster and the 7th Legion Commander alone.

“I’m now convinced, Wyrmbane,” Shaw grumble, “that you’re trying to kill me.” Turning his back on the other man Mathias made his way back across the deck away from him. Intending to resume his former position but unable to resist the pull he felt towards the rail. Looking out over Boralus’ Harbor. Amber eyes finding Flynn’s form within moments as he mounted the steps outside Cyrus’ office. Taelia was standing there. They smiled at each other.

The burning in his chest got worse.

By the time the day’s duties had come to a close, Mathias was convinced he’d taken ill. His chest felt tight and pain flared with every breath. His skin felt flushed, hotter than it should have been given the biting chill of where they were stationed. A fever, more than certainly. Something he’d caught from one of the Kul Tirans or a past venture into Zandalar. Either way, its timing was impeccably bad. With any luck, he’d manage to sweat the damn thing out and would be back to full strength before he had to lead the treasury mission. Even if he wasn’t, it wasn’t the Horde he feared encountering trouble with on account of being sick.

The last thing he needed was Flynn, in all his caring idiocy, fussing over him. Not only would the fool be liable to draw attention to them in doing so, but it wouldn’t do anything to help him in the pursuit of getting over this damnable crush.

Calling it a ‘crush’ made him feel like some idiot school boy. And, somehow, felt even more wrong. His efforts at a deep, tired sigh were rewarded by a brief fit of coughing and a squeezing sensation in his chest. Grimacing, he did his best to even out his breathing and calm the pain.

Once the radiating ache had calmed, the Spymaster began the systematic process of stripping himself of his armor. First gloves and boots. Then shoulders. Then the treated leather of his chest piece Followed by the numerous blades he’d hidden on his person-the first dagger he’d received after reaching the rank of First Finger Assassin within the Guild, like his mother before him, strapped to his thigh; the hidden shiv on his wrist which had been a gift from Edwin before he’d unveiled himself as the Defias’ Kingpin; the gold encrusted blade at his belt which had been crafted at specific request of then King Varian in recognition of all he’d given in Stormwind’s service-and lining them up on the bedside table in his tiny room in the bowels of the _Wind’s Redemption._ Setting the small bag full of vials and ingredients of poison craft beside it. Unbuckling his belt and, lastly, peeling off his grieves before retrieving his nightclothes and proceeding into the little bathroom.

Beside the wooden basin stood a large pewter pitcher, faint curls of steam rising off it. Setting his clothing off to the side where it wouldn’t get wet, the Spymaster poured the water into the basin and then clambered into it. Propping his back against the side and breathing in the steam in hopes it might relieve some of the pressure, only for the press and irritation to increase. It felt as if there was something in his chest.

Congestion. Precisely what he’d needed.

Grumbling, hopes of lessened discomfort flying out the window, the Spymaster made quick work of washing up and stepped out. Drying himself and pulling on fresh clothes before forcing the port hole and pouring the soap-soiled water out into the harbor below. Heaving the window back closed and ensuring it was secured tightly enough that the outside temperatures would remain mostly outside.

Trudging back to his bed after prodding the fire in the hearth into something closer to a respectable blaze, Mathias buried himself beneath the sheets and prepared for what he already knew would be a futile effort in attempting to find rest. His natural insomnia kept sleep at bay for most of the night, and the pain in his chest the remainder.


	2. 2.

Admittedly, Taelia Fordragon hadn’t known the supposedly reformed pirate for very long-they’d first met not long before Cyrus had hired him to break into Tol Dagor-but if there was one thing she did known about him beyond any shadow of a doubt it was the fact that he was an incorrigible flirt. Almost to a degree where it was something he simply did without thinking in most cases. A thing like breathing to most people. But it didn’t normally leave him looking down.

As she watched her friend and colleague walk towards her up the stairs outside of Cyrus’ office, having just disembarked from his latest report aboard the _Wind’s Redemption_ , a fake smile plastered to his face, she couldn’t help but be a bit suspicious that there was something more to matters this time. Taelia returned the gesture. Catching, in her periphery, sight of the Alliance Spymaster standing at the railing, watching them. A displeased tightness around his hawk like amber eyes.

“What did you get yourself into this time?” she asked as he drew within earshot. “Shaw doesn’t look happy.”

“Matty never looks happy.”

Taelia raised an eyebrow. “Ever think that that might have something to do with your insistence on calling him ‘Matty’?” She asked. “He is a decorated military officer and probably considers that a show of disrespect.”

“I can’t help it, Tae!” He exclaimed, stepping into the office after her. “I just…it’s the moustache. And the knives. I do have it terribly, terribly bad for stabby men and Shaw strikes me as the stabbiest of stabby men.”

“He’s an assassin in the service of the Alliance’s High King so, yes. I suppose ‘stabby’ is a workably accurate description.” She said. “What he doesn’t strike me as is someone looking for no strings attached sex. And he’s probably as aware, by now, as I am that you and commitment don’t get along very well.” Noticing how her friend’s expression had screwed up into something odd, she raised an eyebrow again. “By the tides, when you said you had it bad I guess you really meant it.”

“I didn’t think I’d see the day either.” He said. “But I wouldn’t mind dropping anchor if the island was Mathias Shaw.”

The raven couldn’t contain her amused snort, aiming a weak glare from her friend. “I’m sorry, Flynn. But the way you word things sometimes.” She snickered. “Have you considered telling him?”

“I’d like to keep my jollies where they are, thanks.” Flynn grumbled. “Telling Shaw that I’ve the hots for him, that he’s the wind that fills my sails, would probably go over about as well as asking to kiss a siren. Only, I think he’d do worse than eat my face.”

“He’s a Rogue, Flynn, not a monster.”

“And he’s about as fond of me as Priscilla Ashvane.” He huffed. “Did you know that, when I told him I missed him while I was away, he just looked at me annoyed? He didn’t even tell me he missed me or anything either. Just huffed and folded his arms.” The reformed pirate complained. “His chorded, powerful arms…”

“Focus, Fairwind!” Taelia snickered.

“I’m perfectly focused. In fact, I’d argue that I’m more focused than I should be!” He said. “I can’t say I’m surprised, though. Mathias is beautiful the way a tiger is; you can look at it and appreciate it but if you get too close, you’ll get your head knocked off. He probably can’t find the time to sleep, let alone get to know someone anymore than it would take to slink up behind them and slit his throat.” Though Flynn could easily imagine the other man-smaller than him and looking as if he wasn’t quite the weight he should have been yet, never the less, solid muscle easily able to restrain him-doing other things once he’d managed to get them into that position. Back pressed to powerful chest. Other places pressed to…something else. Besides, he doubted Mathias would choose him, out of everyone, even if he did have the time.

It was a bit depressing, really.

“Maybe everyone thinks that. Maybe no one tries because of it. Maybe he’s lonely.” Taelia said. “You’ll never know if you don’t try.”

“Better not to know than to end up as a bow ornament.” He said. “I don’t think I’d look too good trussed to the front of the _Wind’s Redemption._ ”

She rolled her eyes but let the matter drop, at least for the time being. “You were up there for a bit longer than usual today.” She said. “Did something happen?”

“Oh, just more of the usual.” Flynn said, at last seeming to push the melancholy away. “Your illustrious Captain has been tasked again with aiding the Alliance. A dangerous trek into the treasury of Dazar’alor to steal back a bit of stolen treasure.”

“They’re sending you alone?”

Flynn shook his head. “This mission will be two man.”

“Oh, really?” she said. “Well them, who gets the lucky designation of first mate?”

“Exactly who you’d expect.”

Taelia’s brows drew together. “What?”

The former pirate shrugged, looking down again. His smile tinting a little less real. “I think Wyrmbane is trying to rile him up. He certainly seemed amused by the notion of ruffling Matty’s feathers.”

“That seems a rather odd thing to do.” Taelia said.

“I don’t know, Tae.” He said with a sigh. “Sometimes I wonder…”

“Wonder what?” but he shook his head and didn’t elaborate. “Well, when are you leaving?”

“The end of the week.” He said. “Why?” 

“Because you’ll be needing supplies, obviously.” Taelia said, retrieving a pouch of coins from a drawer. “Sounds to me like a time for a spot of shopping.”

“Shopping at any opportunity.” Flynn said, a slightly reluctant smile pulling at his lips. “Typical woman.”

Taelia swiped at him good naturedly. He tried and failed to dodge her strike. Her hand colliding with the thick seal coat he wore, drawing a laugh out of him. As they exited the Harbormaster’s office, the raven turned her head to look back over in the direction of the towering Alliance ship. The Spymaster was no longer watching them. There was no one at the rail.

“So, what do you say to doing all this supply shopping and then picking up some sweet buns, hmm?”

Taelia turned back to Flynn and shook her head. “Is food all you ever think about?”

“Food and treasure and the man I’ll never have.” He sing-songed back, having already begun to walk away at a happy jaunt. “So, is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” He said happily. “Tell me something, Tae. What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you?”

Rolling her eyes, Taelia followed him deeper into the crowded market.


	3. 3.

Mathias had gotten so little sleep in the last decade that he had no doubt the bruised bags under his eyes were permanently imprinted into his flesh. But this, even still, he felt was different. Different enough, certainly, to be noticeable to those around him if he wasn’t careful.

It was certainly noticeable to his body, even considering how normalized running on an aggregate of three hours of sleep had become to him. His limbs felt like over stewed noodles. His eyelids as if they’d been capped in lead. The daggers around his waist, as well as those hidden on various places across the rest of his body, felt like solid loadstones secured to him. The pain which had helped him warm his narrow bed had evolved over the course of the morning into a burning itch; one that was impossible to even attempt to scratch as it originated from the insides of his lungs. A building pressure had been increasing since he’d returned to his post. Immediately recognizable as the sort which could only find release in the form of a cough. And the Spymaster was well aware that even a single out of place sound from him was certain to draw the attention of the Paladin.

The last thing Mathias needed now, when the only thing to distract him from the no doubt superficial but none the less uninvited illness was to be given early dismissal to his quarters for ‘rest’ he already knew he wouldn’t find.

So, he resisted, however futilely, the urge for the majority of the morning. Face screwed up over his moustache into an expression which made him look even less approachable than usual, until almost noon when his body would have it no longer and rebelled. His efforts to further stem it resulting in a muffled snort, at which point Alleria glanced over with a raised eyebrow, but as Mathias lifted a hand to wave her off he was forced to clamp it over his mouth instead. Even still, the three sharp coughs carried over the deck like Orcish cannon fire. He could feel Wyrmbane’s gaze before he raised his head to meet it. Taking a deep breath of cold, salted air as he straightened up. The expansion and compression of his chest sending bolts of smoldering pain and relief through him. Doing his best to make himself look unruffled he shook his head in clear dismissal but the Paladin wasn’t buying it. Shuffling his papers and setting them aside, Halford-his range of motion limited by the full set of plate which he seemed to wear at all hours of the day and night-extricated himself from behind the command table by means of an odd scooting motion and began walking towards him. But the Light, even given his less than stellar track record of remembering such things as observance of religion, seemed to be on his side at the moment as, before the other man could reach him, Flynn materialized from seemingly thin air in his path.

Though the Spymaster was certain to remain subtle about it all, he’d have to admit that he breathed a sigh of relief. One which nearly sent him into another spat of coughing though he maintained control, if only narrowly.

“Captain Fairwind!” On account of the shock of his sudden appearance, no doubt, Halford nearly jumped out of his armor.

“Aye, didn’t mean to startle you.” The Kul Tiran informed him, though the grin on his face seemed less than apologetic. “Figured you’d be expecting me about now anyway. I do need to deliver my report after all.”

The Paladin let out a huff but turned his attention fully onto the former pirate, which had the effect of turning his back on Shaw. Allowing the Rogue to, for the most part, shore up his control.

“Well then, Captain Fairwind,” Halford rumbled, “carry on.”

“As of yesterday night, and a bit this morning, everything is in order on my end for shipping out with Gingersnap.” Mathias could hear the 7th Legion Commander rolling his eyes, and as such resisted the urge to do so as well. “I’ve an expedition with the Wolf Pack out to Havenswood in an hour or so. Keep the Azerite flowing.”

“Your dedication to the Alliance is thusly noted and appreciated.” Halford informed him. “Light willing, you’ll return safely with your crew. But I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I need to speak with the Spymaster.”

So Fairwind hadn’t managed to present himself as quite the level of a distraction Shaw would have preferred.

“Oh, of course.” The Kul Tiran’s eyes flicked, briefly, between them. An odd look on his face. “Well, I suppose that I’ll be off. Still a few things left to do before the _Middenwake_ is ready to sail.”

It was with an almost lost puppy sort of expression that he cast a final glance over his shoulder at Shaw, who was too focused on the flare of pain which chose that moment to rip through him to truly register or process it, and disembarked.

“Mathias.” There was an authoritative tone in the Paladin’s voice as he turned back to him.

The Spymaster, already aware of what was about to be said, cut him off. “I’m fine.”

“Mathias Shaw doesn’t make unnecessary noise.”

“I made a lot of ‘unnecessary noise’ in Felsoul Hold.” He snapped, then frowned when it didn’t have the desired repellant effect. “I’m Human too, Wyrmbane. Though that may be hard to believe. We cough sometimes.”

The other man still looked skeptical and narrowed his eyes but didn’t call on it. “I trust your work ethic enough to know that you wouldn’t allow an illness, cold or otherwise, to jeopardize a mission.” He said. “In pursuit of that end, I’m releasing you early on leave to-.”

“I’m not going to be helped by ‘rest’ in my cabin, Wyrmbane!”

“Good thing I’m not sending you on bedrest, then.” The Paladin said. “Go see a healer. Take something. I don’t care what it is. Make that cough go away. If I hear so much as a sniffle tomorrow, I’m replacing you on the mission, am I clear?”

Narrowing his eyes, Mathias nodded stiffly; no matter how much the fact could irk him at times Halford was, technically while afield, his superior officer and too much of a lack of respect was something he wouldn’t be able to get away with. “I understand.”

“Good.” He said. “Dismissed.”

Turning on his heel, Mathias swiftly disembarked the _Wind’s Redemption_ and set off into Boralus’ streets at a steady stride. Forcibly seizing his hatred or crowds and discomfort regarding a stranger’s touch and tamping it down. Barreling forwards without allowing his mind to focus on the fact that there were too many people all around him and that he stood in plain view. Turning off down the stairs beside the Flight Master’s station and descending into the Dampwick Ward.

The threat of brigands and pickpockets kept the vast majority of traffic at bay, a fact for which Mathias was grateful. In fact, if not for knowing doing so would likely send him into another fit, the Spymaster might have breathed a sigh of relief.

Skirting a liberal spattering of frozen puddles, formed during the latest rain in the many dips in the broken road, the Rogue made his way over to the opening in the front of a building out front of which hung a set of wooden signs, one of which bore the recognizable symbology of an Apothecary’s shop.

The interior was dry and stale and smelled of dust. His chest constricting sharply, forcing him to pause for a moment to cough sharply before he managed to gather himself enough to mount the stairs and scale them the two floors that were necessary.

Inside the Apothecarium it was dark and hazy with steam from numerous brewing potions. The sharp scents of numerous intermingling herbs joined the dust and sweetness of rotting wood in the air. To his right was a tall shelf full of poultices.

The Spymaster nearly leapt out of his skin when a wizened old woman whom, he suspected, was a native of Drustvar appeared out of the gloom beside him.

“Mainlander! Bit out of yer way out here, aren’t ye?” She was missing the majority of her teeth. The remainder of them were rotted black. “What brings ye to old Agatha?”

“A potion for a cough is all I need.” Mathias said stiffly.

The crone made a rattling noise which reminded him starkly of a cackling raven. She stepped forward into him with a surprising alacrity for her age and it took everything Mathias had not to shrink away when she pressed an ear to his chest. “Breathe.”

“What-?”

She smacked him harshly on the hip and snapped “Shut up and breathe, Mainlander!” And if only to get her away from him sooner he did as he was ordered. “Again!” Deep breaths hurt but he grit his teeth and pushed through it. Finally, after what seemed a small eternity, the woman stepped back. Tutting. Pity in her deep-set eyes. “Love sick.” She turned her back on him and walked over to another shelf and pulled down a pair of potions, one blue and one green. “This is for your cough, to be taken twice daily in the morning and the night. It may work. It may not.” She held up the green one. “For pain. I doubt you’ll really need it until the disease progresses further. At that point, you’d best pray to whatever power you believe in that you can keep it down as you die.”

Mathias’ eyebrows shot up so far they almost flew off his face. “What, exactly, am I being diagnosed with?”

“Do they not have Love Sickness where you come from?” the crone demanded. “The Flower Spitting Disease?”

Some sort of folk illness thought up by the islands overly superstitious populace. What had Halford gotten him into? “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” He said, resigned to being held hostage for the explanation. “I take it that it’s terminal?”

“With the only cure being the reciprocation of romantic love unrequited. A truly brutal end to meet.” She told him grimly. “It starts as a simple cough while it seeds in your lungs, but dependent on contact with the responsible party its progression can be quick. You’ll begin to spit up petals. Then entire flowers. And, in its final stage, you’ll die choking on entire blossoms and your own blood.” She shook her head. “For your sake, Mainlander, I hope your love’s favorite bloom doesn’t have thorns. You’ll be seeing petals soon.”

Utterly ridiculous. “How much for the potions?” he asked, pulling his coin purse from where it hung at his belt.

It was a relief to escape the building and climb the stone stairs back towards Tradewind and the _Wind’s Redemption_ , the potions he’d purchased safely tucked away in a leather pouch.

One look from Halford was all it took to communicate he wasn’t to return to his post that day so Mathias descended the narrow galley stairs and made his way into his room. Starting a fire in the hearth and then, on account of it being near enough to evening, taking the first dose of the blue potion. Syrupy and foul tasting, it coated his throat and chest and relaxed his lungs enough that his breathing eased. Swiftly stripping free of his leather armor, feeling more drained then he had in a long while, the Spymaster collapsed into his small bed and dropped into a shallow sleep.

He dreamed of auburn hair and rugged grins and roused to a fit of coughing worse than ever before. The phantom taste of iron on his tongue.


	4. 4.

Though its effectiveness had rapidly declined from the initial dose, the syrupy potion had done its job in convincing Wyrmbane that his illness had been kicked effectively aside. At just past dawn, with all of the necessary supplies for the delicate mission they’d been assigned, Mathias had left the decks of the _Wind’s Redemption_ in favor of the _Middenwake._

Had he been pressed to do so the Spymaster might have been forced to admit that he’d had considerable misgivings regarding the numerous hours he’d be forced to spend trapped in close quarters with the former pirate in between leaving Boralus and arriving on Zandalar, especially given that the crew consisted of only the two of them, but the Captain had been kept surprisingly busy by the general needs of sailing which, admittedly, the Spymaster knew little about.

Though the sight of Flynn Fairwind with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up over his forearms, tugging on the chorded mariner’s ropes, definitely didn’t do anything to assist with his predicament.

Finally, after a day and a half of sailing at the top speed the _Middenwake_ could reach without having a Tidesage at the helm, the Kul Tiran galleon-its usual green and golden sail, baring the colors of the Proudmoore Admiralty, replaced with a more generic and unremarkable white for the occasion-they made it within sight of land. The jagged, jungle carpeted contours of the ancient island a welcome respite from the endless pane of rippling blue which had been their uninterrupted view since Boralus, and all of Kul Tiras, had fallen away behind them. Dropping the heavy iron anchor over the side and into the tropical sapphire waters below.

Seal skin coat still around his shoulders despite the oppressive humidity and heat, a strand of coppery hair, escaped from the leather tie used to hold it back-falling into his smiling face, Flynn looked up at him. “Even what with all the possibility of being found in the boobytrapped infested treasury, run through with an entire armory each of spears and then have our heads turned into voodoo fetishes it’ll be nice to have our feet back on the ground, aye Matty?”

This time, just this once, Mathias chose to allow the use of that ridiculous nickname slide. Ignoring the sharp lance of pain which pulsed through him. In an effort to distract himself, Mathias cracked his neck. “We don’t have time for idle chit chat, Fairwind.” He grumbled, striding confidently across the deck to peer over the railing at the water below. Xibala, and the hidden Alliance base which the 7th Legion and a few of the King’s Champions had managed to eek out there, was a few hundred yards away, just off the shore. “Where’s the dingy?”

The Spymaster was certain that the look of disappointment which flashed across the other man’s face had been something he imagined. “Just over here,” the former pirate gestured to the small wooden row boat which had been secured to the side of the ship. “Feel free to climb in while I finish securing the sails. I’ll join you in a pinch.”

Mathias turned his back on the other man, carefully clambering up onto the slick, wooden railing, the Spymaster negotiated the delicate process of maneuvering himself into the hanging dingy without slipping and tumbling into the water below. Perching on one of the narrow benches inside of the dingy and forcing himself not to think of the dangerous way the little boat swung in the wind.

Mathias couldn’t help but be grateful that the positioning of the little dingy, slightly lower than the railing, prevented him from having to wrestle with the temptation of further admiring Fairwind’s ropework.

Thinking of Flynn made his chest hurt. Attempting to calm his breathing made his chest hurt. Wincing, Mathias covered his mouth and allowed a single, sharp cough.

When he pulled back, blood was flecked against his leather glove. Movement from above, caught through the corner of his eye, had the Rogue hastily swiped his palm against his leg. The Kul Tiran dropping into the dingy a moment later, making it swing precariously.

He grimaced apologetically when Mathias threw a pointed glare at him.

“Sorry, Matty. Didn’t mean to make you nervous.” He said, beginning to lower the little rowboat towards the clear water below. “Going down.”

The pully rattled as the rope was spooled through it. The little boat shaking as it dropped lower and lower before finally landing in the water. Mathias wasted no time in dropping the oars into the surf.

“Hey now, I can do that.”

“I have arms, Fairwind.” The Spymaster said, perhaps a bit too sharply beginning to row.

Seeming to resign himself to the fact that attempting to wrangle the cars away was unwise liable to result in at least one more puncture wound than he’d had when he’d started with, the reformed pirate simply sat back on the bench across from him and watched Mathias row. Unable to look away from him entirely without being blatantly rude, given their positioning, Mathias fixed his gaze on a point just over the other man’s shoulder. Gritting his teeth.

In reality, the Rogue knew that the entire journey-from lowering the boat into the water to disembarking in the knee deep surf and pulling it up onto the sand, ignoring the strain it placed on his chest-couldn’t have taken more than a handful of moments to reach land but it still felt like a small eternity.

“Quickly, Fairwind.” Mathias said, starting up the beach towards their base nearby. “We’ve no time to waste.”

“No time being wasted here, mate.” Flynn said, keeping step beside him. Somehow managing to look relaxed, all things considered, despite being in the middle of decidedly hostile territory. “Care to break down the next steps of this mission for me while we walk?”

“It’s simple. We take griffons from Xibala to just outside of Dazar’alor, using the thick canopy of the jungle to obscure our movement.” Mathias said. “From there, we’ll sneak into the treasury through an opening which was discovered by some of my agents. It will lead us directly into the royal treasury.”

“Where we navigate Troll booby traps, find the Scepter and make off with it?” Flynn asked.

“Yes. With _only_ the Scepter.” Pulling the gilded blade from its place at his belt, Mathias leveled it threateningly in the ex-pirate’s direction. “If I catch you putting your hands on anything you’re not supposed to, a court marshaling will be the very least of your concerns.”

“I’ll admit that there’s a treasure here I’m interested in getting my hands on,” the Captain said, grinning, “but it isn’t gold or jewels.”

In that moment he almost looked earnest. The Spymaster made a noise in the back of his throat like an angered cat and shoved the blade back into place. “Starting off on the wrong foot, Fairwind!” He turned away and trudged up the beach.

The griffons were already waiting for them at the Flightmaster’s station. Wordlessly, the two men clambered up into the saddle and took off. The winged mounts maneuvering between the towering trees and hanging vines with ease. The moss-grown rocks and running rivers flashing by below them until they came to light at the base of the massive gilded pyramid around which the Capital of the Zandalari Empire had been built. Mathias wasting no time in scrambling up the slope of fallen debris and slithering into the crack beyond like a cat. Flynn following with decidedly less grace.”

They found themselves standing in a dark hallway, lit by torches, carved into solid stone. Looking around, noting the Spymaster’s figure was just visible in the gloom, whistled through his teeth. Attracting the other man’s glare. “Well, truss me up and throw me over board. This is one hell of a place, isn’t it Matty?”

“Dazar’alor is the oldest city on Azeroth.” Mathias said. “Of course their treasury would be a fortress onto itself. I’d imagine the ages have accumulated a lot of valuables to protect.”

“Suppose that’s true.” He said. “This place is a pirate’s bloody dream.”

“Fairwind!”

“I know! I know!” Flynn raised his hands in a placating gesture. “No touching.”

“The Abyssal Scepter should be in the deepest part of the treasury.” Mathias said, starting forward. “Watch your step.”

They moved steadily along the wide hallway, then turned the corner and stopped. Flynn’s eyes widening as Mathias frowned.

“Wow.” The once pirate said with a tone of awe. “There’s booby traps, and then there’s _booby traps._ ”

Blocking their path were numerous grates of sharpened spears, each separating the hallway into a set of rooms which themselves boasted their own traps: lasers and flame jets and balls of lightning. Visible at the far end of the hall, in a smaller chamber behind a cavernous hall full of hills of coins and gems, was the artifact they’d come for.

The Spymaster grumbled to himself, then stepped forward. Examining the first grate. Keen eyes at last falling on the responsible mechanism.

“First order of business will be getting these gates down.” He drew his blades again and began to gingerly prod at the delicate machinery. “Keep quiet and stay put. This shouldn’t take me long.”

Though not quite as straight forward, the problem in front of him wasn’t much different from lock picking. Though requiring longer, slightly less precise tools. With enough persistence, their first obstacle would fall.

“Matty.” Naturally Fairwind couldn’t keep from running his mouth for longer than a couple of minutes. Mathias ignored him and continued working. Using the tip of his daggers to push down on one level and push up another.

“Mathias!” Flynn said again, sharper this time. “The golem! It-!”

“Not now, Fairwind!” The mechanism met him with resistance. He pressed harder. With a quiet clicking sound the first fall of spears collapsed.

“ _Mathias, behind you!”_

The assassin spun around and swore. Leaping from his crouch, back towards where Flynn stood with his own blades drawn, out of the path of the stone golem’s strike. The blow shattering the stone where he’d been standing moments before.

“Golems!” The former pirate said. “Of course it had to be bloody golems! It’s Drustvar all over again!”

“Golem, Dragon, Orc, it’s in the way and needs to be dealt with.” Mathias said. “Watch my back, Fairwind, and I’ll watch yours!”

Shadow stepping behind the golem the Spymaster locked his legs around its middle and dug his blades into every crack and cranny he could find. Pushing. Twisting. Forcing them longer and wider until the ancient stone began to split apart. Groaning angrily, the golem back-peddled at full speed towards the wall. Forcing Mathias to relinquish his perch or be crushed into a slurry.

He landed on his shoulder, rolled to soften the blow, and fell into a crouch. His lungs beginning to sear. His eyes watering as the iron tang of blood rose in his mouth. The Rogue forcing himself to swallow the blood back down.

Flynn had closed in to keep up the pressure on the animated guardians. His swords artless brightwork as they flashed in the dim glow of the guttering flame. The Outlaw’s strikes overly large and less focused than they should have been; messy by comparison to the honed and deadly blows of a properly trained assassin like him, but they were none the less affective. One of the golem’s arms coming free and shattering into chunks of granite.

Coiling down into a pounce, Mathias put the full force of his weight behind his second leap onto the golem’s back. Locking his grip around its slopped shoulders and winging his legs in the direction of his momentum with all the force that he could muster. The golem tipping to the side, losing balance, and falling. Its stone body breaking up into chunks the size of small boulders.

Mathias’ own body collided with the ground a moment later. Landing with an audible thud and rolling until the jutting wall forced him to a stop. The jarring impact knocking loose the last of his resistance.

On his hands and knees, back arched and head down, the Spymaster lapsed into a fit of coughs that wracked his form. The force of it hazing his vision with tears. The lack of air making his head ache. He flinched and recoiled when a hand touched his back, wide eyes snapping up to meet the other man’s naked concern.

“Are you alright?” he asked, sounding horrified. “I didn’t think you hit the ground that hard! Is anything broken?”

“I’m fine, Fairwind!” Mathias had to snarl to get the words out through his coughing.

“Fine?” the other man repeated in disbelief. “Matty, you’re spitting out blood!”

Mathias’ eyes fell to the stone flor below him and was confronted with the sight of a red pool the size of his palm. The Spymaster could taste the blood thick on his tongue, along with something almost…floral. “It has nothing to do with the fight.” He wheezed. “I was coughing up blood on the _Middenwake.”_

“Please tell me that you’ve seen a healer.”

“In Boralus, yes.”

“And?”

The Spymaster drew back from the display of raw and earnest worry. Pulling away from Flynn’s light grip and rising to his feet. “Now isn’t the time for this.” Not that it was any of his concern anyway. The Spymaster swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Scarlet smearing over dark leather. “We’ve a job to do.”

“And it can wait a few more seconds.” Flynn seized him by the elbow and spun him around. The smaller man bristling in response. “Coughing up blood isn’t normal, Mathias. Especially not that much.”

“Her ‘diagnosis’ was quackery.”

“Matty-.”

Annoyed, Mathias threw up his hands. “Fine! If satisfying your curiosity will make it so we can get out of here before we’re caught, then I’ll tell you the ridiculous folk illness I’ve been plastered with!” He snapped. “The Flower Spitting Disease!”

The other man’s eyes went as round as doubloons. “Tide Mother’s mercy! You’re aware that Hanahakibyou is _fatal_ , right?” He said. “That there’s no cure? That the only treatment is worse than death?”

“It isn’t _real_ , Fairwind!” he snapped. “Even magic can’t make flowers grow in someone’s lungs!”

“I’ve seen a man die to it, Mathias. Briarthorn crawling out of his mouth. Blood everywhere.” He shivered. “Just tell him.”

“Him?”

“Halford, obviously.” Flynn said. “Spymaster or not, you’re not exactly subtle.”

“ _What_?” had he not been so utterly horrified by the mere prospect of such a thing Mathias would have winced over the fact that it had come out as a screech. “You think…? Are you mad!”

“I-.”

“If you ever imply that there’s anything more between Halford and I than a working relationship that’s barely functional again I am jumping off the _Middenwake_!” Spinning on his heel, Mathias stormed across the little room away from him. “Come on!”

Without bothering to look over his shoulder and ensure that the other man was following, Mathias skirted around the ball lightning littering the floor and brought down the next gate. Then negotiated the flame jets. Then the chamber filled with elemental wind and revolving lasers. All the while ignoring the numerous attempts at smart quips Flynn made.

Negotiating between the hills of treasure, now keeping an eagle eye on his companion to ensure the pirate didn’t attempt to pilfer anything they weren’t there for, they made it into the room where the Abyssal Scepter hung suspended in a magic veil.

“You have the decoy?” Flynn nodded and stepped forward. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” Snatching the real scepter with one hand, the Kul Tiran replaced it with the fake with the other. Turning around to face him and grinning. “See. I told you I had it.”

The magic holding the false Scepter up faltered and died. The decoy falling to the stone stand below it with a clatter. The chamber behind them beginning to shake.

“Now can we worry?” Mathias growled as both turned to face the treasure filled chamber. What at fist looked like an inert pile of gold rising up into a massive glittering golem.

“Nope! Nope!” The other man said. “Now, we run!”

Mathias didn’t need to be told twice. Seizing Flynn by the sleeve of his ridiculous coat and taking off at full speed down the nearest hallway. The roar of the golem echoing off the walls and ceiling. Left turn. Right turn. Dead end.

“Oh, Naga’s balls!” Flynn cursed, turning to him with real panic in his eyes. “Please tell me you have something up your sleeve to save our bloody hides.”

“Always prepare for the worst.” Mathias pulled a blue and white stone from his bag. “Hold onto me!”

Flynn grabbed him with enough force to bruise just as the treasure golem came crashing around the corner like a tidal wave. Mathias activated the spare hearthstone. The Zandalari treasury vanished in a whirl of color.

The two men landed, hard, in a tangled pile on the damp ground.

One of the Dwarves nearby-a Dark Iron with a flaming orange beard-who’d seen them arrive couldn’t contain a snort. “Rough landin?”

Picking himself up, Mathias ignored him and started towards the little dingy. Flynn following not far behind.

As Mathias bent to lift one of the oars it was pulled out of his reach. He turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Flynn.

“You rowed over here.” He said. “I row back. It’s only fair.”

Shaking his head and dropping the matter, Mathias climbed into the dingy. Flynn pushed it out into the surf before he joined him, rowing back towards the _Middenwake._

“You’re sure that you’re alright?” the Kul Tiran asked once they’d lifted the dingy back out of the water and clambered up onto the deck of the ship.

“I’m fine, Fairwind.” Mathias said, turning to make his way below deck. “But after all that’s happened today, I need a bit of rest.”

Whatever Flynn’s answer was, the Spymaster didn’t hear it. Descending the stairs into the _Middenwake_ ’s inner halls. Propping himself against a nearby wall as another fit of coughing wracked him.

When he pulled his hand away to look, a single crimson petal was plastered to his bloody palm.


	5. 5.

Flynn had wasted no time in dragging her off to the nearest café upon returning from his ‘secret’ mission to Zandalar and, whilst wildly waving his hands about, had detailed not only the spymaster’s predicament but who he thought it was that the man had unrequited feelings for.

Once everything was said and done and the reformed pirate was left to stare at her expectantly. Taelia couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“So, you really believe that the Flower Spitting Disease is real?”

“Oh, not you too Tae!” He said, exasperated. “It’s extremely rare, I know. It sounds far-fetched, I know. But it’s very real. I told Mathias this and I’ll tell you too, I’ve seen someone die to it. There’s no worse way to go. You cough up blood first. Then petals. Then flowers. Then the stems and vines and leaves. They crawl up your throat and out your mouth. If there are thorns, they slice you up inside. And if you live through that the plant grows so large that your lungs can’t contain it and burst.”

“Right.” She said. “And you think that this person Mathias is in love with is Halford Wyrmbane?”

“With the amount of time they spend together, who else could it be? They’ve worked together for years, Tae. No one else makes sense.” He said. “But we need to act quickly, not only to make that Paladin aware but to press him to tell Mathias his own feelings. The speed of the disease’s progression is determined by exposure!”

“I understand wanting to spare someone their death, especially if this disease is as bad as you say, but I can tell there’s more to this than you’re saying.”

Flynn sighed, sounding old and incredibly tired, and flopped down into the chair across from her. “I have it bad, Tae. Really, really bad.” He said. “Mathias is just…there’s no one like him. Never has been in all the time I’ve sailed the seas of Azeroth. I don’t want to see him die. Especially not like that. And if I have to see him with someone else, then fine. I’ll pay that price.”

“Wow, you weren’t kidding when you said you could see yourself becoming a commitment guy over him.” She said. “Do I need to worry about you catching the disease, too?”

He shook his head. “There’s a reason that it’s as rare as it is.” Flynn said. “They also call it ‘Love Sick’. Someone must believe themselves unworthy or undeserving of love, in some form, have feelings for someone they believe will never love them back and have been left emotionally brittle by a recent trauma. The only cure is to be convinced that that person does love you. And it has to be romantic love. Platonic love isn’t enough.”

“Is there a treatment?” Taelia asked. “Surely a disease like this must be magical in origin. Maybe Lady Proudmoore could help?”

Flynn shook his head. “We took Ol’ Peety to a Mage too, but there was nothing they could do. It’s resistant to the Arcane. Maybe a Druid or a Shaman could slow it down but no magic can stop it.” He said. “Then there’s surgical removal. But you have to make certain every thread of root is gone or it’ll grow back. And the consequences are so severe that most elect to die.”

“Consequences?”

“The documentation of it all is a bit hazy, understandably, but it could be anything from losing your memories of or feelings for the person to losing the ability to ever love again. Ever feel emotion again. It’s worse than dying!”

“Is it always the same flower?” Taelia asked.

“No. It’s determined by the flower favored by their love interest. Once the illness has presented fully and they’re coughing up entire blossoms it becomes more obvious who their attachment is to, but…it’s also riskier to attempt to pull them through.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Flynn said, “it all depends on the type of flower growing in their chest. Take mine for example: the Tirigarde Rose. The thorns on that flower would tear someone up inside. Ever if they were cured, they could still bleed to death. Or die from an infection. The scarring from it might cause them breathing problems for the rest of their life.”

“Do you know Halford’s favorite flower?”

He shook his head. “No. But we’ll ask, I suppose. I just…I guess I just want to know in the hopes it’s something that won’t cause him unnecessary pain.”

Taelia reached across the table and gently rested a comforting hand on his arm. “What’s your plan?”

“We buy a gift for Wyrmbane on behalf of Mathias.” Flynn said. “It should prompt Wyrmbane to confront him on the matter. Hopefully Matty will fess up.”

“You really think Halford loves him back?”

“How could he not?” Flynn asked, eyes over bright. “I’d kill to be in his place.”

Taelia’s expression took on a tint of real concern. “Any ideas on what you want to get as a gift?”

Flynn blinked at her, then. Looking as if he’d just run into a wall. “Right. The gift. Well.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “I…don’t know anything about Wyrmbane. Let alone enough to be able to guess at a specific gift the way that Mathias surely would.”

“Well then, let’s go with something traditional.” She said. “At the very least it will catch enough of his attention for him to open a dialog about the matter.”

Flynn broke out into a smile. “I think that might just work.” He said. “You’re a genius, Tae!”

The Harbormaster’s Squire rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would!” The former pirate said. “Honestly, where would I be without you?”

“Sometimes I worry about the answer to that question.” Taelia said with a sigh. The pair rising from the table and exiting the café.

Tradewind’s streets were as packed as ever; the wealthy set of Boralus’ citizens mingling with numerous merchants selling their wares, various Alliance personal currently off duty and a handful of Champions, each recognizable by their glowing weapons and elaborate armor if not by name. Beside the steps of the _Snug Harbor Inn_ , a Tortollan leaned against a mailbox, half way through regaling only partially interested passersby with a story.

Flynn was too focused on their destination to notice and Taelia didn’t stop.

“I’d suggest flowers,” she said as they passed a florist’s stall, a display of vibrant blossoms in every imaginable color arrayed out front, “but I think that might not be the best of taste, circumstances considered.”

The former pirate sent the nearest set of blossoms and haunted look and shook his head. Speeding his pace as they passed.

“How about chocolate?” she asked. “You can never go wrong with that.”

“Until they turn out to be allergic.” But his brittle effort at humor felt short.

“ _Is_ Wyrmbane allergic to chocolate?”

Flynn shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.” His worn boots thudded against the short set of steps out front of the store. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The scents of cocoa-butter and hot sugar swept over them like the rising tide. The door banged shut behind them and the overhanging bell tinkled. The man behind the counter briefly looked up from what he was doing to greet them. Taelia smiled back. Flynn said nothing, crossing the floor to one of the tables and picking up a chocolate heart, secured by golden twine to the arm of a stuffed bear.

“Found something?”

Flynn held up the little bear and the attached chocolate. “I don’t think it screams ‘Mathias’ but it’ll certainly make him ask questions.”

“Isn’t asking questions what we want?”

The former pirate nodded, unable to conceal the sadness in his eyes. “Yeah.” He said. “The more questions the better. Matty will probably try to be difficult. It’s going to get him killed if we don’t do something.”

Gripping the bear a bit harder than he needed to, Flynn took it up to the front counter and paid. With the item stowed away in a little bag, the pair returned across the market back to the docks where the _Wind’s Redemption_ rose, imposing, over the horizon.

As they crested the boarding plank Taelia glanced over towards the space the Spymaster normally occupied only to find it empty. Halford Wyrmbane, standing beside the command table, looked up as they approached.

“Captain Fairwind, Ms. Fordragon,” he said, rather stiffly, “can I help you?”

“We’ve a question, Commander Wyrmbane.” Taelia said. “If you wouldn’t mind the curiosity, what’s your favorite flower?”

The Paladin, seeming a bit taken a back, considered matters and then said “I’m not one for flowers, but I supposed I’d have to say Kingsblood if pressed. Why?”

“A favor for the florist.” She said. “She’s trying to get a better grasp on foreign preference to decide what she wants to import.”

Not terribly believable if the look he gave her was anything to go by. “And you, Fairwind?”

Flynn held out the bag. “A gift, on Matty’s behalf.” He said. “He asked me to give this to you.”

The 7th Legion Commander took the bag with a raised eyebrow and reached inside. His expression of confusion transforming into one of concern as he caught sight of the bear and attached chocolate which read ‘candy ass’. “That man has taken ill!” He returned the bear to the bag and set it aside. “I’ll speak with him when he returns from the Harbormaster’s Office. Dismissed.”

Leaving the bag containing the bear and the chocolate behind the pair turned and disembarked. Taelia returning the friendly smile of a nearby Draeni whom Flynn didn’t even seem to notice.

“Well,” he said around a forced smile, “that went perfectly. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a drink or twenty. You know? To celebrate.”

“Flynn-.”

“It worked after I got tangled up with that damn siren,” he kept walking, acting as if she hadn’t spoken. “It ought to work with this sort of heartbreak too.”

The Harbormaster’s Squire, at something of a loss, watched her friend disappear into the crowd.


	6. 6.

The blue potion had stopped working entirely the night prior and halfway through the meeting with Cyrus and two of the Alliance Champions his ability to hold back the urge to cough had worn through completely. The last portion of the time he’d spent gathering the necessary intelligence reports had thusly been interspersed with pauses to cough into a kerchief which the mage had quickly conjured for his benefit-hiding the blood which rapidly stained it and pinning the small handful of petals in place with his thumb-and looks of concern. Needless to say, the Spymaster was glad to have the chance to leave once the meeting ended, and seized on it immediately.

It felt like barbed wire had infested his chest. Thorns ripping into the tender flesh of his lungs with every breath he took. Wincing. The world tilting slightly and going off color. His knees threatened to buckle.

He couldn’t remember ever having so much trouble walking up the boarding plank.

Cresting the top felt disconcertingly like running full tilt up the slope of Blackrock Mountain. Propping himself against the rail, wheezing, he spat another clump of bloodied petals over the side. Watering eyes focused on the scarlet stain against the dark water.

Plate-shod footsteps drew up behind him. Mathias didn’t need to raise his head to know who it was.

“My office.”

Mathias heaved a shallow sigh-even that sent agony lancing through him-and nodded. Hearing the footsteps move away again. By the time he managed to scrape together the energy to push himself upright and away from the railing the Paladin had already disappeared below deck. Internally cursing, the Spymaster began the slow and arduous process of hobbling across the deck towards the stairs. Propping his shoulder against the wall as he made his way down and along the hallway.

Halford, rather impatiently Mathias couldn’t help but think, was seated behind his desk waiting for him. A bear with an attached chocolate heart bearing an…interesting inscription sat in front of him. The Spymaster raised an eyebrow.

“Candy ass?”

Halford exhaled tightly though his nose, broken before on two occasions, and said “Captain Fairwind claimed it was a gift on your behalf.”

“Fairwind has screws loose.” He said, chest burning. “He seems under the delusion I bare some sort of torch for you.”

“Do you?”

Mathias snorted and immediately regreted it. His lungs screaming as blood crawled up his throat. “I mean every offense in saying that the ‘stick up my ass’ has nothing on the tree up yours. You’re not my type.”

“It seems you’re still rational, at least.” The Paladin said. “You don’t look well, Mathias. That boarding the ship left you out of breath isn’t an encouraging sign. I want you to see a healer.”

“I-!” His protests that he’d already seen one, all be it a less than reputable one, were cut off by another fit of coughing. Mathias managed to cover his mouth and clamp shut his jaw in time to contain the petals but when he pulled back his palm was full of blood. The garnet liquid dripped between his fingers and onto the wooden floorboards at his feet.

Both men stared at it for a moment. Then, Halford spoke again. An inarguable authority punctuating his words. “Mishka will see you in the morning and the results will be reported directly to me. If I have to send you back to Stormwind to ensure that you recover I will. Am I understood?”

Mathias simply didn’t have the energy to fight and nodded. The petals he’d coughed up safely tucked beneath his tongue.

“Go rest.”

The Spymaster turned without a word and exited the office. Propping himself against the wall as he hobbled to his own quarters. Only just managing to make it and close to door before his vision began going dark.

He paused, hoping that giving himself a chance to catch his breath would help, but the spots grew larger. The searing pain unbearable. His vision tunneling as his eyes fell on the green potion, across the room atop the bedside table and he started towards it. Knees buckling before he could take more than a few steps. The pain of his body hitting the floor failing to register around the panic which crawled up his throat alongside the thorny vines. Mathias choked. Heaved. Wretched and, finally, dislodged the blossom in his throat. The serrated leaves raking along his tongue. Thorned stem cutting his pallet. The taste of blood blooming stronger as he spat it out onto the floor. His efforts to gasp for breath, to find relief, thwarted when another blossom took its place. Then another. What little air he managed to catch fueled more coughing. His vision was useless. His efforts to rise onto all fours, to crawl, amounting to nothing. His chest scraping along the dry floorboards as he scrabbled for purchase that simply wasn’t there.

Dying. He was dying. More than likely then and there. On the floor of his cabin in the _Wind’s Redemption._ Victim to a disease which should have been a myth. Perhaps that was for the best; even given the blow his death, in the midst of war with the Horde, would deal to the Alliance this way no one else would be inevitably hurt by his inability to function in sustained contact with another person. No one else would be inevitably put in danger due to the ties they might have to him.

Still, a part of Mathias couldn’t help but think dying like this, choking to death on roses, was ignoble.

He lay there, gasping but gaining no relief. Violent shivering overtaking him as his body began to go cold. The last vestiges of sight falling away as darkness claimed him.

Unconsciousness or death he didn’t know.

Halford Wyrmbane, though he was possessed of the basics of it all, was not by any stretch a healer but even he knew that coughing up fistfuls of blood wasn’t a good sign. Mathias had been looking more and more drawn, pale and sickly as days had passed since the pair had returned from the heist in Zandalar but he’d thought it something the rogue could handle. Even stubborn as the other man was. Yet it seemed he’d been incorrect on that account.

The man was a handful, beyond absolutely any doubt, but he was his subordinate, currently, and that made him Halford’s responsibility. And so, he worried.

That worry was what prompted him to retrieve a cup of broth from the ship’s kitchens, expecting-likely correctly-that Mathias had simply forgone eating all together once he’d been dismissed to his chambers.

It was only once he was outside the door that the Paladin detected the smell of blood. All notion of respect for privacy discarded, Halford seized the handle and flung the door open.

At first, the room appeared empty. Then he looked down. “Mathias!” The wooden cup dropped, forgotten, to the floorboards. Spilling its contents and rolling away into the far corner. The Spymaster, his only motion the strained rise and fall of his chest, lay half curled on his front. Cheek pressed against the dry floor. A snarl of roses-full formed blossoms and jagged, thorny branches-lying in the half-tacky puddle of blood which had formed across the ground.

Kneeling beside him, Halford rolled the other man onto his back. His body seizing into another fit of coughs, more blood and a handful of petals spilling from his mouth.

What in the world? He’d never seen such a thing before and had no idea how to deal with it. Was it a curse? Had the Horde done this, somehow? Through Zandalari voodoo, perhaps.

“Elune’s mercy!” Apparently, his earlier shout had drawn the attention of others; Shandris Feathermoon, General of the Sentinel Army, was standing in the doorway of the little cabin, gripping the frame with her nails. Her lambent white eyes wide and locked on the fallen Rogue: the blood and petals surrounding him.

“I don’t know what’s happened, Shandris!” Later on, he’d likely wince looking back at the panic in his tone. As it was, with his direct subordinate choking in front of him on his own blood and the flowers which, against all logic, seemed to be growing inside him was too overwhelmed to care. “He’s been cursed, or-.”

“Not cursed.” The Night Elf cut him off, already turning to bolt up the hall. “Stay here and keep him breathing! He needs a Druid to slow it down! With Fairwind not off on some island somewhere the Thornspeakers ought to be somewhere in the Harbor.”

She was gone before he could protest and Halford was left to do whatever he could to keep the other man alive for long enough for the Thornspeakers to arrive. He could only hope that flooding his body with the Holy Light would be enough.

Placing a hand palm down on Shaw’s chest he called the Light. The golden magic unfurling around them in a blanket of comforting warmth. Seeping into Shaw’s flesh, passed his ribs, and revealing what the Paladin could only read as damage where a trained healer, like the King, might have been able to determine what, exactly, within the other man that had been torn so badly. As it was, Halford only knew that Mathias was bleeding internally to such a degree that he’d have thought the other man had inhaled broken glass.

“Mathias,” he couldn’t respond, unconscious and apparently on the brink of death as he was, but he said it none the less “what _happened_ to you.”

“Love sick, by the look of the mainlander.” A woman’s voice with a clear Kul Tiran accent. Halford looked up and met the murky green eyes of a red-haired woman in the leather garb of a Thornspeaker. Shandris was just behind her, white eyes returning to Mathias’ form. “Tide mother, I hadn’t realized it was this bad.”

“Can you do anything?” Shandris asked.

“I can keep him alive for a couple of hours. Morning. Noon, maybe, depending on how strong he is. But you know as well as I do, Elf, given you recognized it, that the only one who can cure this is the one who put those flowers there. Get them to love him back and him to believe it, though there’s little time for that, and he’ll be right as rain. Convince him to undergo the operation that will take his emotion and he’ll survive, but the life he’ll have after isn’t living.”

“And if we can’t do either?” Halford asked.

“Bury him.” So that was it, then? Unravel the mystery of who it was the man had fallen for and then convince them, somehow, to return the feeling all in a handful of hours or order a treatment which would ruin him, or the man would die?

A hard choice, certainly. One he didn’t like the prospect of having to make.

“If you could put him on the bed, please, I can do what I’m able to to keep him alive for long enough to see the dawn.”

Carefully, the Paladin scooped the smaller man into his arms and lowered him onto the narrow bunk. Wincing as another set of coughs racked his body, sounding wet and raw. He stepped away, then, allowing the Kul Tiran to take his place at the bedside, emerald vines of nature magic unfurling from her fingers.

Halford hadn’t realized how strongly the room smelled of blood and roses until then, and now found himself faint. He nearly jumped a mile when Shandris’ hand found his arm.

“Speak with me outside, if you would.” She said. “I’m sure you have questions, Commander.”

Questions, yes. To say the least of it. Nodding, the Paladin followed her out of the little cabin, shutting the door behind him.

“What is Love Sick? He’s choking on flowers? Why haven’t I heard of such a thing?”

“The proper terminology is Hanahaki, or the Flower Spitting Disease. It’s the rarest illness on Azeroth and in all my 10,000 years I’ve only seen it twice before. The first time, it ended happily.”

“And the second?” Halford demanded.

There was a look of deep sadness on her face which said far more than enough. “I don’t have that friend anymore.” She said. “The illness is magical in origin and resistant to all forms of attempted magical intervention, because of this, to varying degrees. Borne of unrequited love under very specific circumstances the only true cure is for their feelings to be reciprocated but there is, as mentioned, a treatment. But the consequences are said to be dire. So much so that most of those who suffer it prefer to die.”

“Dire indeed.” Halford ran a plate gloved hand through his short-cropped hair. “Light help us all, Feathermoon. I don’t take this lightly, not at all, but the Alliance can’t afford to lose him.”

“It may not be enough, even then, with how far the illness has progressed.” She said. “He’s had to have had a lot of contact for the disease to be in its final stages so soon. And those roses have sharp thorns. His lungs have likely been shredded; if the blood loss doesn’t take him, infection may. And even if he lives, there will be scarring.”

“So, the best option would be to determine who it is that’s caused this and bring them together.”

“All things considered,” the Sentinel said, “I don’t think that puzzle is particularly difficult.”

“No,” Halford said, “it isn’t. Nor is whether he’d return the feeling in question. But that’s not a choice I can make. Not an order I can give.”

“We both know the choice he’ll make.”

The Paladin nodded and turned away. “I’ll alert Stormwind. The King ought to be made aware of the Spymaster’s impending return for emergency treatment that might not save him. I’ll be in my office. Have the Thornspeaker send word when he’s awake.”

He trudged down the hallway, leaving the Night Elf behind, and soon found himself alone but for his heavy footsteps and the gentle listing of the deck beneath him. The door of his office creaked. The contents of the top drawer rattling as it was pulled out, allowing the Paladin to extract a feather quill, inkwell and sheet of parchment. Quickly writing out the details necessary to alert the King to what had happened. Setting it aside to let it dry before he folded it into thirds and sealed it with wax.

Overly dedicated to his job, or perhaps merely convinced of his own statues as falsely undeserving of care and affection, when death was cut off as an option Halford already knew Mathias would chose to risk being stripped of any capacity to feel over admitting his own feelings, and his need for those feelings to be returned. A life altering decision which, even through magic, could never be undone. If he even lived through the procedure at all.

He didn’t like it, didn’t agree with it, but it was out of his hands.

Stepping back out onto the deck of the _Wind’s Redemption_ he approached the nearest mage and handed her the letter. “Send this to the King, immediately. The contents are time sensitive and life or death.”

“Of course, Commander Wyrmbane.” The woman took the letter, saluted him and presumably did as she’d been told to. Halford didn’t wait around to see for himself, sitting back behind his desk and making a failed attempt to keep himself busy with paperwork. Breathing a sigh of relief when, at long last, a knock came on the door.

“He’s conscious?” he asked, rising back to his feet once Shandris had opened the door to look inside.

The Night Elf nodded. “He is. And he’s able to talk, though it’s clear he’s very weak and in a lot of pain.” She said. “If you wish to speak with him, Commander, you can do so now. Given his state, I wouldn’t delay terribly long.”

“If he’s unwilling to speak with Fairwind on the matter than I’ll use the authority I have to ensure he’s in Stormwind, getting the necessary treatment, by the dawn.”

“If you really think that’s best.” The tone of her voice made it clear she didn’t. Halford didn’t think so either but, ultimately, it wasn’t his place.

Circling around the edge of the desk Wyrmbane exited his office and made his way back down the narrow hallway. The door creaking as it was pushed open and he stepped inside.

Though no longer as strong as it had been, the little room still smelled of blood and roses. Mathias was propped against the pillows, struggling to keep his eyes open. The verdant glow of Druidic magic highlighting the dark shadows under his eyes and the blood which stained his lips.

That morning the other man had appeared fine, if tired. But now the truth of his position on the brink of death was undeniable.

He didn’t speak when he saw him, looking utterly resigned.

“You didn’t expect to wake up.” He said. “You can’t die now, Mathias. Certainly not something like this. The Alliance cannot afford to lose you while we’re in the middle of the war. For the love of the Light, tell him and save yourself so we can all move on from this.”

“Fairwind would never return the sentiment.” Exhaustion was clear in his voice. “He’s with the Fordragon girl, anyway.”

Wyrmbane wasn’t certain if the emotion he was feeling was better categorized as pity or exasperation. “I’ll never understand how someone so valued for their perception could ever be so blind.” Far more effort than ever should have been necessary was put behind the smaller man’s glare. He was clearly struggling to stay awake, his breathing pained and shallow. “I’ve sent word to Stormwind. You’ll return to the city just after dawn. If you won’t tell the man, your other option is the operation. I’m sure you’ve been told as much about it as I have.”

Mathias looked away, then. That, of itself, was tantamount to a confession. “Fine.” He said. “I’m a claw of the King. Emotions only serve to get in the way.”

The Paladin resisted the urge to reach out and slap him. “You know as well as I do that emotion isn’t the same as weakness.”

“It is when it becomes a point of exploitation for the Horde.” Every word weighed heavy. “I won’t have anyone suffer because of me. Be put in danger because of their ties to me. Not while the Banshee holds the seat of Warchief. If someone must suffer, then I’d rather it be me.”

“The healers will see to it you live through this.”

“I think you’re putting too much pressure on them.” He said. “There are some things magic simply can’t do.”

“I believe in the Light’s power, as does the King.” The Paladin said. “You’ll live. You must.”

“There’s no such thing as a soldier whom isn’t expendable.”

“Perhaps not. But any life that can be saved, should be.”

The Rogue heaved another sigh that seemed to cost him. “I’m tired, Halford.”

And he looked it in every facet of him, collapsed against the pillows which had been piled against the headboard. But that he’d admit as much so openly, without having to be coerced and cornered into doing so, set off alarms.

“I’ll let you rest, then.” He said. “They’ll come to take you back to Stormwind soon.”

The other man said nothing and watched him retreat from the room with tired eyes.


	7. 7.

The blood spattered rose in the center of his desk had all but certainly come from Shandris. Sitting innocently atop the scattered maps and papers, suffusing the lukewarm air with the nauseating scent of nectar and iron, it chased the clinging brine of the harbor from his nose and undid what little success the hour he’d just spent seeking answers in the surf had found. Mathias Shaw had never been his friend, though he respected him as a soldier. For his loyalty to the crown and his unflinching skill if not his methods. He always had seemed the type without much time for things like emotion, or maybe more the type who was running from his own, but to think he’d choose to lose them entirely when there was such a simple cure? That he’d choose death?

The paladin fingered the stem. Watching the play of the low burning candle light off the drenched satin petals. Marveling at the bite of sharp thorns through the leather undersides of his gloves. The damage that those thorns were no doubt capable of. The damage they must have caused already. This was what was growing inside the other man? 

What point would there be in sacrificing everything that made him Human, even if he felt he didn’t need it, when there would all but certainly be scarring so bad that he’d no longer be able to serve the crown regardless?

Glancing up at the porthole, at the deep dark of late night, Halford retrieved his heavy cloak from the peg it hung on to fight off the cold and made his way out the door.

The upper decks of  _ The Wind’s Redemption  _ were as deserted as they had been when he’d left them minutes before, and no one was around to stop him as he maneuvered across the still lowered boarding plank and struck out into the darkened streets of Boralus.

One never paid mind to how many pubs existed, tucked away in quiet corners, until they had to search them. By the time he finally found who he was looking for, collapsed forward over a lopsided and dirty bar top, heedless of the fact that he was lying in the contents of his capsized mug, Wyrmbane had seen enough of such establishments to last the whole 7th Legion a lifetime.

Astonishingly, the former pirate was still conscious enough to twitch when he sat down beside him. Head rolling from one side to the other before he finally succeeded in raising it. Blinking through leaden eyelids at him. “Ya look out of place, Commander.”

“And you’re in the wrong place, Captain Fairwind.” The rose had wilted slightly, its petals crumpled and bruised from the time it had spent crushed in his armor, but was still recognizable as what it was. And recognizably bloodied. 

The immediate sobering the other man went through made it obvious he knew what it meant even before he asked. One hand finding purchase against the side of the bar to push himself properly upright. “What’s this?”

“The thing that’s killing him.” He growled, watching the reformed pirate lift the flower with his bare, shaking fingers. “And it isn’t  _ my _ favorite flower.”

“Nah, Mate. This is a Tiragarde Rose.” He swallowed hard. “It’s mine.”

Halford grunted, narrowing his eyes. “I’m going to order you a coffee. You’re going to drink it, then come back with me to  _ The Wind’s Redemption  _ and put an end to all this madness.” He motioned to the bartender, who paled visibly at the sight of his armor. “I will  _ not _ allow the death of one of my men because of this. Nor will I allow the deaths that will follow without his leadership. I don’t care what happens after, if anything comes of this or if he never forgives me for saving his ass. But it stops.”

All Flynn seemed comfortable with doing was nodding in agreement and taking a swig of the coffee he’d been passed: piping hot and black as pitch. He winced, though Halford couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or the flavor. 

“All this time I thought it was you.” Him? Light’s grace, never in a million years. A sentiment he knew full well the Rogue heartily shared. “What I don’t get is why Matty never said anything.”

“Because he believes, rightly, that the Horde would make a target of anyone he’s personally involved with when they inevitably find out. To get to him.” Halford said. “And because he thought you were with the Fordragon girl.”

If the mug hadn’t been empty Flynn probably would have spit it out. As it was, he dropped it and the ceramic shattered on the floor. The bartender's protest went ignored. “Tae is good people, mate, but it isn’t like that. She’s basically my sister. Even if she weren’t, women aren’t for me.”

They didn’t seem to be for Mathias either. “Let’s go, Fairwind. We’re wasting time.”

The Captain’s leather boots pattered, half-off kilter, along the floor behind him as Halford made his way out of the bar. A distant and disjointed part of him admittedly impressed by the man’s ability to maneuver between a scattering of chairs and tables despite how obviously inebriated he was. Flynn straightened up somewhat once the frigid night air hit his face, though the improvement was really only marginal.

“You were drinking over him.” Not a question. The Kul Tiran seemed to know it, too. He grunted in response. “This isn’t the sort of problem you can drown in a flagon, Fairwind.”

The other man struggled for a moment before he found his words. “Funny.” The icy water of the harbor hissed and crashed below them as they made their way along the market square. “That almost sounds like a man who is speaking from experience.”

Halford sighed, his breath rising behind them in a silver cloud. “Maybe I am. That was a long time ago.”

“I take it they weren’t spitting up flowers?”

“No. They just had their eye on someone else.” The pain had faded a long time ago though, sometimes, he could still feel the scars. “He’s downstairs.”

“Right, well,” the sodden former pirate stopped at the top of the stairs, peering down into the half-lit darkness, “wish me luck.”

Their footsteps thudded over the salt dried steps as they descended into the belly of the ship. The door at the end of the hall left slightly open, the shadow of the Thornspeaker who’d been seeing to what little treatment could be given to the Rogue in the interim of morning projected onto the opposite wall. It squeaked against hinges left too long unoiled and drew the blurry gaze of the man in the bed.

Mathias’ eyes focused enough to almost be called sharp and he rearranged his face into an anemic approximation of a glare. “Fuck you, Halford.”

“My responsibility, as your superior officer, is to do everything in my power to make sure you come back from this war alive.” The Paladin folded his arms across his chest, fixing the smaller man in a firm gaze. “If you don’t want a relationship, fine. Make that choice once this insanity has been seen to. The Thornspeaker and I will leave the two of you alone.”

“Stubborn as an angry lion seal, that one.” The woman grunted, stepping around him and out into the hall. Halford closed the door behind his own exit, leaving the pair alone in the little room.

For a long time, the only sounds were the creaks of the listing ship and Mathias’ labored breathing. “Tides Matty. Why didn’t you say anything?”

The little Rogue quivered violently, looking for the life of him like a half drowned cat despite his bared teeth. “Because I don’t have the time to waste chasing after a man who already has ties. No matter how much of a flirt he is!”

Flynn blinked and rocked back on his heels. “Like I told Wyrmbane there, Tae and I aren’t anything more than friends. She doesn’t have any of the necessary things to catch this sailor’s interest. This former pirate doesn’t have an island to call his own at the moment, though I wouldn’t mind the chance to drop anchor with you.” At that moment the rest of what Mathias had said seemed to dawn on him. “I didn’t realize it made you jealous. I can tone it down for you, if you’d like?”

The Spymaster looked like he wanted to retort with something barbed, but the thorns in his lungs got the better of him and he lapsed into a fit of coughing. Flynn all but lunged across the room to hoist him forward and over the bedside, allowing the other man to spit blood and petals out onto the floor. Viscous red dripping from his quivering, blue tinged lips. Gasping. When Flynn lay him back against the pillows, seating himself on the side of the mattress, he just looked tired. Like he’d finally given up. “I can’t.” He said. “Not with you. Not with anyone. Not with my position. The Horde would slaughter you to get to me.”

“Would it work?” Mathias looked away. Flynn sighed and, gently, rested a gloved hand against the Rogue’s cheek. Turning his head back to face him. “You do realize that they’re going to target me anyway, don’t you? I am in charge of lugging all of the Alliance’s Azerite from place to place, after all.” He seemed to have lost the necessary strength to speak, but the way his hawkish eyes narrowed in response spoke volumes. “You know, this doesn’t have to happen now. It doesn’t have to happen ever, though I’d really like it if it did. But either way, I’d rather have you there, and have that chance exist, than the alternative.” Dead. Or worse. Flynn tried not to think about the matter. “I’m willing to take the risk if you are. Maybe I can change your mind eventually. Just, Tide’s grace, let me do the one thing that’s required to make sure I’ll be visiting a man instead of a gravestone.”

Mathias seemed to consider this for a moment, though he might have just been fighting to remain conscious, before finally offering up a sluggish nod. Careful to prop the smaller man up with one hand on his back, Flynn gently guided his head back and leaned down to kiss him. The Spymaster’s mouth was concerningly cold and offered no resistance. The taste of iron mixing with the ghost of the ale he’d tried to drown himself in. His shaking hands weakly scrabbling against his back.

When he pulled away, Mathias gasped like he’d just been pulled out of the sea on the brink of drowning. Pitching once again over the side of the bed and lapsing into another wracking fit of coughs. Petals. Buds. Stems with leaves attached, all coated in clotted scarlet blood. Eyes watering, the smaller man stared down at the mess on the floor with something almost like chagrin, then pushed himself upright and said with a raspy voice “thank the Light” before collapsing sideways. Chest straining up and down, as if he was afraid not doing so would allow the flowers to take root again.

Flynn watched him for a few moments, then stretched out beside him. “Mind if I stay until the morning?” there was a half-timid note to his voice. “It’s only...a handful of hours.”

It took a moment before Mathias turned his head enough to look at him, blinking beneath heavy lids before apparently deciding words were too much effort and rolling over enough to fling an arm over the Captain’s waist. A laugh rumbling in Flynn’s chest.

Maybe, threat of the Horde aside, and even with the reformed pirate’s flirtatious nature taken into account, a relationship with the man wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.


End file.
